


Good for it

by chornijvoron



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Borussia Dortmund, M/M, Mild D/s, Oral Sex, dortmunder jungs, just club legends getting the recognition they deserve :)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:49:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26872450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chornijvoron/pseuds/chornijvoron
Summary: It's only ever been a joke, a seven-year-long crude joke, what Łukasz would do to him (for him) if he ever scored again.At least, that's what Marcel thinks, until the 89th minute of the Paderborn game.
Relationships: Łukasz Piszczek/Marcel Schmelzer
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24





	Good for it

**Author's Note:**

> Like a perfectly normal person coping very well indeed with the pandemic i have been watching back thru all of BVB TV and been inspired by these idiots.
> 
> Sources of inspiration in the endnote, for anyone who wants the joy of these boys being delightful on camera.

Though it's been seven years, he hasn’t forgotten. No Yellow Wall thundering this time, no opposing fans groaning, but scoring is still the best feeling in the world. They’re flying high, a rampaging righteous team pummeling a dismantled Paderborn 4-1, when Marcel (more central than he should be, further forward then he should be, but what the hell) slides onto the end of Axel's pass, a scrappy outside-of the boot shove-in past the hapless keeper.

There's joyous commotion, a riot of yellow as the boys swarm him, shouting, swearing, slapping him in excitement. His vision's nearly swimming from exhaustion and elation. In the midst of it all Piszczu, with his unmistakable grin, finds him, crushes him to his chest and -

“Guess it's time to make good, eh, Schmelle”- Pizsczu says, lips brushing Marcel's ear to be heard above the scrum.

Dazed, wearing an utterly stupid grin of his own, Marcel doesn't understand at first, laughs, rakes his hands through his hair to pull it back to order after Mats' enthusiastic grabbing, fends off further slaps from his teammates. “Eh?”

Łukasz's arm is slung over his shoulder as they walk back to the center circle, giving him easy reach to murmur to Marcel, and the fizzing along his skin is just the joy of a first goal in seven years, the yo-yo of elation after heartbreak at the Allianz the week before, nothing to do with Łukasz's lips skimming his ear -

“You think I was joking all these years?”

Marcel gives a happy, distracted noise, still coming down, shakes his head - Piszczu steps back, grips his shoulder, stares right into his eyes, grin gone just a bit crooked, just a bit wicked.

“Ah, Schmelle. You know I'm good for it.”

And it's a good thing it's the 90th minute by now, and they're up four. Because as Piszczu claps his shoulder and jogs away casually to play out the last few minutes of stoppage time, Marcel very suddenly _does know_ , and it's a miracle he even notices when Jadon completes his hat trick a minute later.

\--

It had started as banter years ago, he wouldn’t be able to pinpoint the genesis, but one time along the way when Schmelle shouted _Leck mich!_ in frustration at a laughing Piszczu after being roundly beaten in a drill, Piszczu smiled, replied lazily _sure,_ _score a goal and I will_. Schmelle snorted, threw his water bottle at Piszcu, and trotted after the ball to go again.

But he kept telling _(inviting)_ Piszczu to kiss his ass and Piszczu kept parrying back that he'd need to score first if he wanted to _score_ and it entered the basic vocabulary of their friendship: Schmelle speaks bits of Polish and calls Piszczu _Vladi_ and when he’s mad uses a _perfectly normal rude phrase_. Piszczu responds, occasionally lasciviously, with promises. No worse, much better really, than much of what is tossed around the _kabine_. No one pays any mind, as far as they can tell, except Mats, but Mats is a shit who eventually leaves for Bayern so no one pays _him_ any mind, at least on this matter, even when he comes back.

\--

The showers are celebratory but not quite _raucous;_ with the corona-precautions and limited numbers, it’s very in-and-out efficient, but as Marcel’s scrubbing off the dirt and sweat and grass every movement he catches out of the corner of his eye has him on edge, wondering if it’s Łukasz, cursing himself for the swooping emotion that he feels at the thought.

\--

“So, Schmelle, hero of the 89th minute, looking forward to your just reward? Will you get it here? I don’t know that there’s a time limit, but there’s something romantic about getting you-know-what on a team bus, don’t you think?” Marcel, reddening, stares resolutely forward. Ignoring Mats is not a historically successful tactic for making him go away, but there’s a first time for everything. “Maybe romantic’s the wrong word, I should say, the taboo after all - hey, is this how it all got started between you two, those Quiztaxi rides? Poor Nobby - or should I say, lucky Nobby” Mats leans over the bus seat, waggling his eyebrows absurdly above his mask, which is still, surprisingly, in place.

“I have no idea what you're talking about.” Schmelle attempts innocence, but considering he’s a few special-occasion bus-beers in, his flush only deepens.

“Oh, I'm quite sure you do, my friend! Or shall I remind everyone? A captain must be accountable to his team -” Mats pulls down his mask and raises his voice “GENTLEMEN - wait, someone cover Gio’s ears - LADS, I'D LIKE TO - ow, stop, Schmelle - REMIND YOU THAT OUR CAPTAIN, ŁUKASZ PISZCZEK, HAS REPEATEDLY PROMISED - AUGH, RED CARD, VIOLENT CONDUCT -”

Schmelle, having attempted an over-the-seatback offensive but found it insufficient, finally extracts himself from his own row in order to get an elbow into a laughing Mats’ side.

“NO respect at all for social distance, look at this - “

“Mats _,_ ” Schmelle hisses, furiously red-faced, “fuck off.”

“Of course! Anything for the goalscorer,” Mats says officiously, looking pleased at getting Schmelle to break more than anything. _“_ But speaking of goalscorers, I just want to be sure our captain doesn't go back on his word, eh, Piszczu, you know I'm just looking after Schmelle's interests, making sure he gets what he deserves.” 

Piszczu, with alarming calm, simply replies, as though Schmelle’s not even there, "I’m a good captain, Mats. Man of my word.”

\--

Marcel is hunkered down in his bus seat, headphones on, drained and drifting a bit as his buzz eases. Every time he drifts too close to thinking about Łukasz, though, it’s like his mind whites out and he flushes all over and uncomfortable things stir in a pantsward direction. He’s thumbing through his phone trying to settle on music when a Whatsapp appears. 

> Ewa and Jenny want to tell you congratulations, by the way

He looks over frowning to where Łukasz is by all appearances absorbed in conversation with Delaney. 

>>> Thanks to Ewa and Jenny! 

>>> Vladi i am can text my own wife?

> I know. You want to know what else Ewa and Jenny tell you

> They also think you should get what you deserve

Marcel takes a deep breath, locks his screen, and pretends to be asleep, which works until Mats reappears for a new round of celebratory cheers and attempts to bully Łukasz into giving a captainly speech as they pull into Dortmund.

\--

Marcel’s first impression of Łukasz was _sharpness_ \- cheekbones, chin, spiked hair, crosses, the sharp hunger of frustrated ambitions, of _knowing_ he had potential he wasn’t living up to, snarling to prove it. You could fear you’d cut yourself on his edges.

Łukasz hasn’t softened, precisely, but become more solid, a whole, settled into his body and knowing his mind, and the way he moves you know it too. It’s what makes his gaze so clear and slightly unnerving, a big cat waiting for the flicker of prey. A man with that simple, absolute confidence, solidity, intrinsic power - surely to such a man every other man is _easy_ , easy to catch, to pin down, to take apart.

Łukasz’s first impression of Marcel was _Jezu Chryste, that hairstyle needs to die, and are those_ highlights _. Someone should mess that up._ No surprise it ended up in occasionally literal pigtail-pulling (at least ‘til Marcel had finally started seeing a proper barber).

\--

In the car park they’re all slow to unload, dutifully replacing masks for any lurking photographers but haphazard about the details, milling about looking for inconsequential items. Drinking in the last few moments where it’s allowed to slap backs, ruffle hair, see and touch and laugh with other human animals before returning to empty apartments or pent-up families. 

Marcel’s warm and tired, aching some, enjoying the atmosphere but ready to go back to Jenny and Mimi and Oskar. Stows his kit in the trunk. He’s put aside, is already forgetting - 

“Schmelle. You’ve left something inside, haven’t you?”

He very abruptly remembers, with a full body jerk.

“Vladi - “ he can’t finish that sentence. Doesn’t know what the end is.

“Schmelle.” Łukasz’s hand finds the space between his shoulderblades. “Let’s go get it, shall we?” He presses but doesn’t push.

He stumbles on the first step but Łukasz has him.

\--

Marcel’s walking like a wind-up toy and he’s gone through more than a few stages of freak-out as their footsteps echo down the empty halls of the training center, but by the time they’ve reached the _kabine_ he’s decided. He needs Łukasz to know, turns around, notes in the back of his mind that the room’s clear, door closed ( _does it lock?_ _can’t remember - right. Focus._ ) 

“Łukasz - “ _Christ_ , his eyes are so deep-set you can’t even see the color, but you can sure as hell feel the weight. Does he know Łukasz’s eye color? _Focus_. “I. What - um. Look, I’m not up for a joke - “ 

“Not joking. Not all these years. Well, It’s been a good joke, I should say. But I’m not joking.” He waits, nearly casual - not like he’s not invested in the outcome, but like he’s 30 seconds ahead and already knows what’s going to happen, what Marcel’s going to say.

“Okay.” Marcel breathes out. The static’s back in his brain. His back’s against the wall, Łukasz in front of him, and they’re of a height but Łukasz’s bulk has never been more evident -

“I just ask one thing of you, Marcel” - oh, that’s a rare something, to hear his name on Łukasz’ lips, with the still-Polish rolled _r_. Marcel hardly nods, hardly moves. 

“Fuckin’ _relax_ , man. Just because it’s not a joke doesn’t mean it won’t be fun.”

And Marcel can't help but smile at that.

\--

When Jenny asks, later, he will comfortably say he hadn’t been pining. Pining implies enough knowledge to be dangerous to one’s own heart. He hadn’t known at all. Still doesn’t know, really, and maybe it isn’t all that deep. But the knot of hope and fear and desperate pleasure he feels when Łukasz sinks to his knees and grins up at him, fingers toying with the waistband of his joggers - well, he’s a grown enough man to know that it means _something._

\--

“So, first goal in seven years. How does it feel, Herr Schmeltzer,” Łukasz pretty much asks his dick, pressing his nose to Marcel’s pants and inhaling, eyes closed, scenting him with a concentration that _does something_ to him, a bolt to the hindbrain. Among other places.

“Uh. Feels good," he responds shakily, "feels - “ Łukasz takes that moment to peel Marcel’s pants and briefs down in one go, and Marcel’s interest in the proceedings is suddenly very evident. He flushes and turns away - caught out, like he’s lost a game of chicken, took the joke too serious, he was supposed to play it cool, probably - “I - Vladi, sorry - you don’t - “

“Don’t have to? Is that what you’re going to tell me?” Marcel nods, sheepishly looking back at Łukasz. “Marcel.” He pauses, his expression more serious, getting the words right. “You know me. I keep my word. I _have to_ because I _said_.” Marcel’s frowning, not liking this talk of obligation - “And I _said_ because I _want to._ ” 

That’s it - that’s. Maybe he can accept that. He doesn’t understand _why_ Łukasz wants to - _something_ him. But it’s _real_ , it’s not a joke. You can joke about doing things, but they're too old to dance around wanting.

“So you’re going stand right here - ” Łukasz pins Marcel’s hip to the wall for emphasis with one of his - _Christ_ \- giant hands - “you’re not going to move - “ - his other hand is suddenly wrapped around the base of Marcel’s dick - _fuck,_ Łukasz _is - fuck -_ “and you’re going to to take what I give you.” - and then Łukasz’s mouth is on him, and even though Łukasz has _said_ and _said,_ Marcel truly hasn’t _believed_ it would happen until it has and his head is empty of everything but a white-lightning bolt of pleasure.

\--

He honestly has never spent time pondering his teammates cocksucking abilities - well. No, that's not entirely true, occasionally he's entertained a stray thought when someone says something particularly vulgar - but that was the application of a mouth to the task _generally,_ not Łukasz’s mouth to _himself specifically_.

But if he _had_ thought about it, taken any time to actually entertain the thought instead of stuffing it firmly in a locker where it belonged, he would have known it would be exactly like this: Łukasz’s eyes on his, firm, unyielding as his hands _\- I’ll never watch a classic Piszczek thrown-in the same -_ one firm at his base, the other a brand at his hip. Łukasz’s mouth is a slow, deliberate slide, his tongue painting long stripes from root to tip and then toying with his foreskin, the sensitive spot under the head. It’s good, it’s _good,_ how it’s this good he doesn’t know - _he must have done this before, who -_ , but he’s about to vibrate out of his skin, lose his footing, and Łukasz looks utterly comfortable, utterly in control from his position on his knees, and Łukasz is, he _is_.

\--

“You, _fuck,_ you don’t have to, to hold me down” he says, not sure where it’s coming from, but he needs Łukasz to _know_ \- what? - he needs Łukasz to know he - he’ll stay where Łukasz _wants_ him, he’ll _-_

Łukasz pulls back, wipes his mouth. “No? I think I do. I don’t think you can take it, otherwise.” He smiles. “But let’s try.”

Marcel’s not really tracking, staring at Łukasz’s reddened lips, mouth. Trying to figure out how this is so good, how to get Łukasz to keep going, his brain is too full of fuzz - 

And Łukasz goes down, and down, and _fuck,_ he’s _fucking deep-throating him, Christ._

“Fuck, Vladi, fuck, my god - “ he babbles, the words suddenly tumbling out, “how are you so, fuck, you learn this at Hertha? - Berlin clubs - “ Łukasz pulls off sharply, pinching his thigh with a pointed look. Waits, as Marcel whines, tries to control the little movements of his hips - _maybe he does have to hold me down after all_ , a thought that brings a full-body shudder as suddenly his mind fills with images of Łukasz flipping him around, pinning him to a bed with a hand on the back of his neck, a much less innocent gesture than the usual grab on the pitch - “Vladi, ah, why - “

“Good things come to those who hold still.”

“ _Sorry_ , Vladi, sorry, I’ll, please - just - _hold me down if you have to, just please don’t stop - “_ and if he had any sense of self-consciousness in the moment he’d be amused (he’ll be amused and embarrassed later) by the speed at which he’d gone from rejecting restraint to pleading for it.

But Łukasz does show him mercy. With a knowing look that makes him feel more naked than he ever has in the dressing room, Łukasz deliberately presses Marcel’s hips to the wall with both hands, digging his fingers in. Marcel’s a 32-year-old athlete, knows bruising, the precise amounts of force that will leave a stain under his skin. This is going to bruise. His hips stop moving.

“Good.” Łukasz returns to his task of reducing Marcel to a shuddering wreck, and Marcel gasps with relief, and as his pleasure spirals higher, liquid heat pools at the base of his spine. He looks away because it’s too much, he can’t process the sight anymore, he’s hardly seeing _anything_ , the only sensory input anymore is _hot, wet, tight,_ bottled lightning with the glass about to crack - 

\--

He’s not being held down so much as held up, as he comes back to himself. Looks down, almost surprised to see Łukasz still there. _Real. Not a joke._ Łukasz slowly releases his grip, smoothing his hands down Marcel’s legs, almost a pet, and they come to rest in his lap, palms up. Open. 

_“Dziękuję.”_ He presses Łukasz’s bruised lower lip with his thumb - _that’s me, that’s Vladi’s mouth I was there -_ stunned, wondering. He’d question if it’d happened if he didn’t have the physical evidence on his fingertip, if he couldn’t feel the bruises already blooming. Łukasz meets his eyes, unblinking, swipes Marcel’s finger with his tongue and gives him a suck. It’s nearly too much. He lets out a shuddering breath, slumps, and tips over, nearly braining himself on a bench. 

The asshole burst into laughter, sat there on his knees, somehow looking quite a bit more imperious than he has any right to be for a guy who just blew his oldest teammate in the club dressing room.

“Shut up, Christ, Vladi” Marcel moans, spreading himself out on the bench, looking skyward. The mood begins to right itself, the room no longer suspended in the amber of unreality. “I need to have my - my _gay_ _crisis_ now. And call my wife. Shit! Jenny!” He struggles upright. “Wait - she - you - “

“I told you. She’s more than happy.” Łukasz slowly makes his way to his feet. Professional athlete or not, those are 34-year-old knees. Marcel can’t look away, mesmerized, as he stretches - _did he ever notice Łukasz like this before? He can’t have, he would have known - or - “_

“But Schmelle.” Łukasz waits until he gets eye contact. “I haven’t kept my promise yet.” 

“What? But - “ Marcel, still slightly stupid, loses his words and gestures towards his crotch.

“Indeed. But that wasn’t the promise, remember?” Smiles at his confusion, with that glint of mischief that inspires simultaneous fear and arousal - _oh, Christ, this is a thing now, isn’t it -_ “Schmelle, I’ve only been speaking German for 15 years, so correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm quite sure I’ve promised you _rimming._ ”

Marcel’s head _thunks_ back to the bench and he can hardly hear Łukasz’s laughter over the ringing in his ears. _Yeah, this is definitely a thing._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for making it through; this is the first fic i've ever properly committed to and finished! Feedback very welcome indeed.
> 
> If you're not familiar, Schmelle calls Piszczu "Vladi" for reasons that remain unknown and speaks bits of Polish to him and it's STUPID CHARMING. 
> 
> And Schmelle did indeed have the incredibly popular, incredibly silly 2010 hair that half the footballing world had, though it admittedly looks better with a trophy on top :))) https://www.gettyimages.ae/detail/news-photo/marcel-schmelzer-of-dortmund-celebrates-at-the-end-of-the-news-photo/113299369
> 
> A Humorous Review of the Goal In Question:  
> \- https://youtu.be/22gkTin4yuw
> 
> The Schmelle and Piszczu show:  
> \- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pnowhfenFoE (Who Knows More)  
> \- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nRmGliLO6-U (Who Am I 2010/11 edition)  
> \- https://youtu.be/wp8l_drN2O8 (the jenga clock i DIE)  
> \- Pretty much any quiztaxi except summer 2020 because Schmelle injured :(((
> 
> Schmelle and Mats:  
> \- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZI4-7HsMEe0  
> \- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3pOM_Uplg7I (in which Mats teases him about being too good with Piszczu at Quiztaxi! AUGH).


End file.
